shoreline
by homulilly
Summary: He takes her out to the sea, but only the shallow end. [FEM!LEO/ELLIOT.]


shoreline.

He takes her out to the sea, but only the shallow end.

They meet in a fight, a horrid fight. No one would expect them, from their first meeting, to become future lovers. Not the painfully oblivious nuns or the stubborn members of the Nightray family, not even the gold-eyed one who, despite the many years of being chained to the Abyss, still had love for the certain blonde-haired boy.

His strong, tough fist curls in her wild, wild black locks as she gasps out her pleasure of him simply being inside of her, her soft-toned words speaking of pleasure spilling off her rose-petaled lips (and mixing and becoming so so so stupid), in which was deliciously mixed with the inevitable pain of it all as well. However, it's impossible to label them differently at the moment. Her hot-tempered master is violently ramming into her too-fragile body without a single damn feverishly, whispering 'Leona, Leona, Leona-' in loud moans and grunts, which makes her feel as if a god such as him had touched her tenderly.

Of course, one had. One was doing so right then.

Then his cock presses there, against that fuzzy patch without a name, and it's hard to tell apart who's cum from who's. Elliot immediately leans on her body for sheer support, breathing heavily, as a pale white hand reaches up to calmly, gently stroke his thin-layered hair, panting just as hard as he. They're both blissfully oblivious of what was to come of the action based on love.

They fight about what they did that lust-filled night.

Elliot's reasonably horrified at the bruised, bloody lip he gives her as a painful result.

The next day, he brings her out to sea as a silent apology.

"I don't like water."

"Why?"

She doesn't say how it reminds her of them. The day the pierced tongue slipped from the bobbing, ghost-like head, and there were legs dangling uselessly above her, a hand reaching for his stupid, stupid sword-

and then them, grabbing her and telling her it was all her fault-

"...Bad things, okay?"

Elliot blinks but says nothing, quietly realizing it must be something personal. It sort of hurts when he has to acknowledge there's some things even his loyal handmaiden would keep away from him, for his own good or not.

He takes her out to the sea, but only the shallow end. Only ever the shallow end, where the waves barely hit and calm long before then, the line blurred between shallow and deep far too close for comfort. For some reason, some odd reason Leona will eventually understand, it reminds her of insanity and sanity.

The lines are so thin and somehow red when they're blurred together like that.

He's dead and there's blood like the water. He's gone in too deep in the water.

Morning sickness comes and she feels ill and ill until it hits the soon-mother what has happened to her body. There is something growing there, something becoming alive.

She personally decides what to name the child if it's a girl.

Lavender Statice Nightray, Leona thinks, is rather beautiful and fitting for a daughter of Nightray and Baskerville blood.

The chain hits fleshy heart and goes deeper, but in another way.

"Leona, Leona, Duchess Baskerville, please wake up-"

Vincent is standing before her, a horrified, worrisome look on his face alarmingly stricken, which grows by tenfold when her black eyes open at long last. She feels unclean and dirty and gross with all the blood staining her nice Baskerville clothes. Below her, but not on her chest, there is blood. A lot of it, and it comes from a place where it shouldn't.

Without any words, she knows what happened when Jack attempted to commit murder on the Duchess of Baskerville. A miscarriage. When Jack hit heart, it killed the child, not at all peacefully.

Leona tells him to do one certain thing, and one thing only.

"Go to Elliot Nightray's grave. Now. Write down, below his name "AND HIS CHILD, XXX/XXX/XXX. Or I won't grant your wish."

Vincent quietly obeys, knowing his Master is dead fucking serious about it.

People later on wonder who exactly the child was and why there's so much statice and forget-me-nots on the white marble tombstone of Elliot and Lavender Nightray.


End file.
